Singing the praises of Smoking Hot Divorce Sex

I am so mad at my ex-wife. It has been about two years since we split and for all my efforts she refuses to have post-breakup sex with me. I mean, two years? What gives, woman!? Don't you watch any television? If you did you would know that we were supposed to have a bunch of Smoking Hot Divorce Sex (SHDS) by now.

You know, friends, my world imploded the day my lady left me. However, as the varying facets of my existence fell into themselves—as the mountains of my bliss, the towers of my ego and the palaces of my finances all collapsed into their own footprints—the one thing that kept me going was the assurance that at least there would be some kickass breakup sex coming. Well, that and the extra closet space of course.

Alas, it seems that my ex, the one you have known as W. for all these years, doesn't agree. Perhaps she doesn't understand how badly people need closure, or how the range of post-matrimonial emotions can lead to some seriously soul-shuddering SHDS incidents. All you need to do is turn on the TV to know this is true, that upon the dissolution of a marriage you are supposed to have no less than three SHDS encounters.

The first should happen before you even part ways; the purpose being to soften the blow of the breakup and to hold you over, sexually, till the rebound comes. We've all seen the scenes on TV. We know how they go:

HIM: [Standing at front door with packed bags and red eyes]. "Well, I guess this is goodbye."

HER: [Trying not to sob]. "I guess it is."

HIM: "I don't suppose we could go upstairs and rub each other on the naughty parts for a bit? For old time's sake?"

HER: [Rushing into his arms] "I thought you'd never ask!"

Then—while The Manhattans croon "Let's just kiss and say goodbye" in the background—they grope and stagger their way to the nearest flat surface, the dining room table. The man clears the table with a sweep of his arm, lays her upon it gently, and tenderly saws her blouse open with an electric carving knife.

The second SHDS occurrence should come about five or six months later, when they happen to run into each other at a bar—one or both experiencing the end times of a rebound—and connect over margaritas and memories: The laughs. The shots. The arm-touches. The shots. The butt-touches. Then the stumbly walk to the nearest flat surface, the beach, where he will clear the seaweed and beer cans with the swipe of an arm and gently, softly—lovingly—tap that ass as David Lee Roth howls "Ain't talkin' 'bout love," in the background.

The third and last rendezvous should be a booty call. On TV it is usually initiated by the woman. Maybe she is drunk and lonely after a lame date. Maybe she's been crying over a bottle of Grenache and a rerun of Crazy, Stupid Love. Or maybe she recently learned that an orangutan man-child will soon be sitting in the oval office with one hairy mitt on the launch button and the other on an intern's pussy.

Whatever the reason, he comes running. She greets him at the door wearing nothing but a stethoscope. This is fine with him because he has ObamaCare. As the soundtrack warbles "Dr. Love" she whispers, "So what has brought you in to see me today?" and pulls him down on the nearest flat surface—the floor. However, after she finishes her, um, checkup, she feels as if something is off. "What are we doing?" she wonders as he puts on his shirt and pants. "This doesn't seem right anymore," he thinks, as he kisses her cheek and leaves. Time passes. They don't meet again for a year or two, when they bump into each other at the post office and exchange clumsy pleasantries: "Oh, you know, keeping busy" and/or "Everyone's fine, how's mom?" and/or "Can you believe the Chargers blew it again?"—just small-talking their way through the awkwardness until one of them announces, "Oh, by the way, I'm getting married," to which the other says, "That's great!" and actually means it.

See now, my darling ex-wife, that is how divorce is done! And I know you are reading this column but did you also read the article in Women's Health?

"'Breakup sex can help you process emotions and give you the time and connection to separate from your ex in a more compassionate way,' said certified sex therapist Kat Van Kirk, Ph.D."

Yes, yes—see? This is a sex therapist talking! And her last name begins with "Van!" Clearly a sex therapist with a last name that begins with Van, certified and quoted in a women's magazine must know what chicks need after splitsville. And the people on my TV seem to agree. You must "process" your emotions and "separate" from me compassionately.

This is how we wean off a long and mostly happy marriage. You've got to man up, woman! Get your ass over here so we can process and separate with our clothes off. Because the one good thing about breaking up is the breakup sex. Because human beings need closure. Because enduring the tribulations of divorce without having divorce fornication is like shattering your collarbone and returning from the hospital without a Vicodin scrip.